


A Holiday From Being A Nun: Alternative Ending

by JD11



Series: Patrick & Shelagh [4]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24243688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD11/pseuds/JD11
Summary: When Sister Bernadette arrives at Dr Turner's flat in the middle of the night in lay clothes, she makes a choice about what she truly wants. Alternative ending to my story "A Holiday from Being a Nun" and sequel to "Shelagh Mannion: A Life in Vignettes". Turnadette.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner, Patrick Turner & Timothy Turner
Series: Patrick & Shelagh [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1710616
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 9, alternative ending

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 4th installment in my series and is an alternative ending to Chapter 9 from “A Holiday From Being a Nun”.
> 
> Before reading this, I would recommend reading:  
> “Shelagh Mannion: A Life in Vingettes”  
> At least chapters 1-9 of “A Holiday From Being a Nun”.  
> It wouldn’t hurt to also read “An Imagined Affair” first, but not absolutely necessary.

“Why are you here?” 

She looked up at him through her dainty silver glasses and shook her head. “I don’t know what to do.” 

He tried to place himself in her shoes, tried to understand her position. She was unhappy as a nun – that had become clear. (And this strangely pleased him. He didn’t enjoy that sensation.) The most logical course of action was to speak with Sister Julienne and request the exclaustration, but she was afraid of Sister Julienne’s judgement – her judgement? Or her disappointment? – and concerned that someone would talk her out of her plans. (Didn’t her concern that she might be convinced to keep her vows mean part of her wanted to stay? But did she want to say because she wanted to say, or because she was afraid of what awaited her once she left?) 

Patrick shifted forward. He nearly reached for her hand, but instead rested his hand on his knee. “You need to do what makes you happy.” She opened her mouth to respond, but instinctively he knew what she was about to say. He cut her off. 

“You are one of the most compassionate, selfless people I have ever met. You do so much for everyone and never ask for a thing in return. I can’t imagine how difficult this choice is for you. To leave the Order would be leaving everyone who has ever helped you, who loves you. It’s such an important community to you and you don’t want to hurt them. And that’s truly admirable.” 

He paused to breathe, to look at her, to hope that she believed him. 

“But sometimes we must be selfish. Sometimes we must do what is best for us – what makes us happy – in order to be at our best. You can’t serve the Order, you can’t help your patients, you can’t be a good friend, if you aren’t happy first.” 

He was sure he could have said more. Knowing him, he could have talked until the sun rose speaking of her merits, but he felt like he had said exactly what he needed to say. 

He didn’t know what she wanted that would make her happy; he really wasn’t sure what was going on in her mind. But if his own experience had taught him anything, that was it. That was the most important take away from his entire life. 

And so he was relieved when she smiled at him. It was a reserved smile. One more grateful than happy. 

There was something bubbling up in his chest, some sort of longing that he didn’t recognize. Patrick let it build as he waited for her to say something. But after a pause, after she did nothing but look out across the room, he realized what he wanted. He wanted absolutely nothing more in the world than for her – for this wonderful woman who descended like an angel into his tattered life – to be happy. 

“Tell me,” he said and she looked back at him, “what makes you happy.” 

She seemed surprised, but her answer came readily: “Music. Especially singing. I miss listening to the newest songs. I miss singing whatever I want.” She looked over at his record collection. He thought he detected a hint of jealousy and desire at the sight of so many records collecting dust. 

Patrick smiled. If music was what would make her happy, then he would play records throughout the night. He’d croon the latest singles during Tuesday clinic. He’d find excuses to drive her around Poplar and let her flip through jazz and pop and, hell, even that new American music if she liked it. 

He got up suddenly and walked over to his record player. His collection was limited to the year Marion got sick, when she stopped taking her monthly afternoon trips to the record shop. But he had one – something a buddy of his sent him for Christmas – that he knew she would love.  
“Yeah, this one,” he said to himself as he plucked it from the middle of the pile. 

Patrick glanced over his shoulder at her. He meant to speak, but he liked the way she was watching him – bemused and half-smiling – and so he just turned back and set the needle. 

The album was by an American jazz artist. The music was new and rebellious and Patrick thought it rather fit the theme of the night. He turned around and smiled at her. Then he downed the last of his whiskey, set the glass down near the record player, and reached out to take her hand. He was surprised that she didn’t hesitate. She took his hand and he helped pull her off the chair and twirled her into him. 

She laughed and crashed into him, almost spilling her whiskey all over his shirt. He took it from her hand and stretched his arm to reach the end table, not willing to move away from her. Then he took both of her hands and spun her around. The music was faster than he’d anticipated and he felt it a little by the time the song climaxed and fell into its conclusion. But, by the end, she was laughing and her smile filled her features. 

When the single ended, he was reluctant to let go of her, but he did and went to the record player to take the needle off. “Any other requests?” he asked as he slipped the record back into its sleeve. When there was no response, he twisted around to see her.

What he found was her standing beside the end table, elbows tucked into her sides, her whiskey in hand, staring down into the amber liquid. 

His movement must have startled her. She looked over at him and said, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” 

But he frowned and sighed and tucked the record back into the shelf. “I’m more interested in what you were thinking.” 

He walked over to stand next to her. He was looking down at her – curiously and tenderly – wishing he could do something to truly keep her happy. Almost instinctually, he took her hand. That was becoming a rather natural gesture, he thought, and nearly pulled away. But the act was done. He held her free hand between his. But this time, he noticed more of her. How her hands were cool, but not cold; how her skin was soft, but calloused at the base of her first two fingers (from her bike handles, perhaps?). 

When she looked up at him, he noticed that her cheeks were flushed and he assumed his were too after their dance. Then he saw how dilated her pupils were; how she seemed to be struggling to control her breathing. Probably still from the dancing, from the dark room. But a little part of him, if he hadn’t known better, might have said she seemed aroused. 

/-/-

When he took her hand, she was surprised but not displeased. 

They had held hands so often recently that she was surprised that she had never really taken notice of the roughness of his skin, but softness of his touch. His hands warmed hers. Just the presence of his touch calmed her. 

After a moment, she looked up at him and noticed his brows furrowed in thought and concern. But what she really noticed for the first time that night is his desire – his eyes dark, his lips slightly parted. She knew that was her causing this change in him and that thought made her body grow warm, made her heart begin to race, made a weight pool in her stomach. 

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand what she was feeling. She knew she should step away from him. She knew she should pull her hand from his. She knew all of this, but she hoped that his sense of propriety would make him move first. 

When he leaned in and kissed her, she was actually surprised that it was him and not her who gave in, but then, a wry part of her mind thought, she had more experience denying her passions. 

His kiss was gentle and cautious, but hardly chaste. When he pulled away only shortly after he started, she resisted the impulse to pout and reach back for his lips. Instead, she grazed her cheek along his jaw and rested her forehead against his cheek. She didn’t want him to pull away yet. She didn’t want to lose his touch. She reached up to stroke his jaw and enjoyed the feel of his stubble scratching her fingertips. 

Again, she knew she should move away from him. Separately them and allow the tension to fade. But then, a quieter voice – Shelagh’s voice – thought, they’d already crossed the line. She’d already broken her vows by taking her unauthorized holiday. She’d already broken her vow of chastity engaging in this behaviour. 

Was it really possible to go back? Was there a reason to deny the selfish, ridiculous game they’d been playing all evening? 

So, she kissed him. She used her hand on his cheek to return his lips to hers and she kissed him. But unlike his, hers were desperate, so sincerely aware of how transient this moment was, how quickly it was about to be snatched away by the impending morning. She played her hand through his hair and sucked on his bottom lip and pressed her breasts against his chest. And when he needed a break to catch his breath, she turned her chin and he peppered her face with kisses. It was his lips grazing over her ear that sent shivers down her spine and made her gasp in surprise. 

There was no conscious thought that made her lower her hand from his hair. It trailed down over his chest. He seemed maybe a bit flabby with his age and poor eating, but he was still strong and broad in a masculine way. He had such an unappreciated strength, not physical but emotional. 

She gave a gentle push to separate them. She felt Patrick resist her – felt his hand squeeze her hip and his body press into her – but then he shifted away from her. 

She could see in his eyes that he thought she was asking him to stop and he shifted farther away. She regretted immediately the loss of his warmth and the pressure of him against her. 

Before she looked up, before she found his gaze, she realized that she had a choice. 

She liked the idea of choice, of making a decision for herself, to do what made her happy. 

She looked up at him. Her smile was soft when she took his hand in hers and tugged him toward the stairs. 

She wouldn’t look back at him – she was too nervous to see his reaction – but he was following without any resistance. When they reached the second floor, she realized that she didn’t know where to go. Timidly, she looked back at him. His face was unreadable, but the darkness in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Then he took the lead and brought them to his room. 

Inside, she reached up and kissed him again. While she distracted him, sucking and playing with his lower lip, her fingers turned their attention to the buttons on his shirt. After the second button, she stopped kissing him to focus. 

Her hands were shaking. She tried to focus on the softness of his cotton shirt, the smoothness of the ivory button, but she struggled on the fourth button. She could feel him watching her. She could feel his breath buzzing the top of her head. She finally pushed the last button through. His shirt entirely undone, she pulled the tails from his trousers and pushed his shirt up over his shoulders and watched it slide off his arms, onto the ground. He was wearing an undershirt, but his arms were bare. He was a bit hairier on his shoulders than she expected. There was curly black hair peaking out of his shirt. But she found it attractive in its own way. 

She looked up at him and stretched up onto her toes to give him a quick kiss. She liked the look of his dark eyes watching her. She loved knowing that she alone was causing him such pleasure. 

But there was something else in his expression. He was struggling with himself – his biology was keeping him entirely invested and the whiskey was doing just enough to bat away his better self, but he was still managing to hold back, to stop himself from touching her. 

She smiled at him a bit coyly – she realized that toying with a man, flirting with him, was a lifetime ago and yet came to her so easily with Patrick. 

“I’m not a virgin.” 

She took a bit of joy when his brows rose, a little dramatically, and that made her smile, the ridiculousness of him at a time like this. She knows there’s a joke on the tip of his tongue. And, certainly, she saw the barrage of questions flickering across his face. 

But before he could speak, she pulled him down to kiss her. She felt the exact moment the last shred of decency he was clinging to left him. He clasped his hands around her hips, dropped them down to her buttocks, and pulled her flush against his body. 

/-/-

She was definitely not a virgin, Patrick decided once his trousers were down around his ankles and she had placed her hands on either knee and, very slowly, her delicate finger tips traced their way up the inside of his thighs. He could feel his skin trembling under her touch. 

She surprised him when her lips followed her hands up his left thigh, when her hand grasped his erect member, when her mouth closed around his balls. 

This was not the first time she had been with a man and she knew precisely what to do to make him squirm beneath her. To make him flex and thrust towards her. When the first moan escaped him, it was deep and long and almost pained. 

He grabbed her shoulders, his hands flexing and squeezing in response to her tongue. She was smiling even as her mouth was occupied and there was something about the coyness that both entertained and annoyed him. 

A little reluctantly, he guided her to her feet. He kicked off his trousers and pants and kissed her. 

He wanted her. He wanted to tear away her clothes. He wanted to lay her in his bed. He wanted to claim her. 

He fumbled with her blouse, but ultimately she bat his hands away and took her time slowly releasing one at a time. But it wasn’t fast enough for him. He worked the clasp on her skirt. He kissed her cheek. His hands were desperately trying to find skin, but he was thwarted at every place. His groan was one of frustration and urgency, but she was still teasing him, still taking her time removing her garments. 

When he finally unclasped her skirt, it fell to the ground, revealing milky skin, flushed to his touch. She still smiled, still taunted him. And so he ran his thumb along the top of her thigh, along to her inner thigh. His thumb grazed over her, making her gasp. Then smile. She reached and kissed him, but this time nipped at his bottom lip. Still so playful. He loved this about her, he was enjoying himself immensely, but he wanted more and he wanted it now. He slipped a finger inside of her. She gasped against his lips and fell into his chest.


	2. Chapter 10, alternative ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow-up to my alternative Chapter 9. 
> 
> I would recommend reading "A Holiday From Being a Nun" first. 
> 
> I imagine this next chapter as coming after the original Chapter 10, in which, after Patrick kisses Sister Bernadette's hand, she decides she will take a month avoiding Dr Turner to evaluate her decision to leave the Order.

The first time she vomited, she had been certain she’d caught some kind of stomach flu and had asked for the day off to rest. But after only an hour in bed, she had felt perfectly recovered and placed herself on the afternoon roster.

But the next morning – she’d vomited again, and again she’d felt fine shortly after.

The weekend had spared her. Even Monday. The next morning, though, the smell of breakfast had put her a bit off food, but nothing serious had occurred and the day ploughed on, until the middle of clinic.

She had to admit to herself, this trip to the bathroom wasn’t from an upset stomach that finally gave way. It was an immediate reaction to the smell of the milk blossoming in her tea.

The leap wasn’t difficult for someone in her profession, but it was a hard one for her to seriously contemplate.

Since her monthlies had started as a girl, they’d been shockingly regular. Her last period should have begun fifteen days ago, but it had yet to materialize.

Around that time, she’d had a little spotting. No, actually, a bit earlier she’d had some spotting, because she’d thought it odd that her period had started four days early. But the spotting was just a bit of pink blood when she wiped; there was never any bleeding. She had the spotting for two days and then it stopped. Two weeks later, her period had failed to arrive at all.

She’d been tired the last few days, which she had attributed to the mysterious stomach flu. And she’d been more flushed, almost overheated, as she made her rounds around Poplar, but it was August after all.

Each symptom had appeared slowly and in isolation and they had all be easy to write off as different things. But that was impossible now, she felt, sitting on the linoleum floor, her wimple tossed to the floor, her face still hoovering uncertainly over the toilet.

And it was a good thing too, because another violent seizure had her heaving bile into the bowl.

A cold weight was pressed onto the back of her neck. She suddenly noticed sounds of someone else’s presence and, shortly after, felt a comforting hand rub circles across her back.

When she was done, she sank back into her heels and then collapsed against the stall’s wall. The metal was cool to the touch; the cooling presence even seeped through her habit. She took the cloth from her neck and dabbed her forehead and then the sides of her mouth.

“Are you all right, Sister?” the woman asked and Sister Bernadette finally took a moment to look at her companion. It was Molly Henderson, who’d recently given birth to her third child.

Sister Bernadette nodded and thanked her.

“There must be a little something going around,” Molly said, and Sister Bernadette really just wished she’d leave her alone.

“I think a few of my little Jimmy’s classmates have come down with a little stomach bug,” she continued, looking down at Sister Bernadette with pity. “Perhaps I should ask the Doctor to pop in?”

The thought of Dr Turner made her heart start and she quickly dismissed Molly’s offer. “No, no. I’m perfectly fine.”

As quick as she could, she tucked a loose strand of hair back under her cap and retrieved her wimple from the floor. She stood, a little unsteady after being on the ground for so long, and dismissed Molly with, “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson, you’ve been very kind. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

Molly took the hint that she wanted a moment of privacy to freshen up and left without another word. Sister Bernadette slashed some water on her face and rinsed out her mouth. As she dried off her face, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

The truth of her situation was staring her in the face and there was only one way forward. She would have to tell the Doctor. She would need someone to approve the test be sent off to be certain. And he should know, in the end, what circumstances she had found herself in.

/-/-

Clinic Tuesdays were his longest days and Dr Turner was only making it back to the surgery at 7 o’clock this night to deposit his paperwork. He liked to take a moment to organize his paperwork into piles, to be looked through in the morning, and smoke an evening cigarette. 

This was where he was at in his night – paperwork piled unorganized on his desk, cigarette case in hand – when there was a knock at his office door. 

Strange, he thought. The reception lights were off and people rarely entered this late, at least so calmly. 

“Come in,” he called and was pleasantly shocked to see Sister Bernadette enter. He smiled at her, a wide and welcoming smile, but he still felt a little anxiety pool just behind his sternum. 

She had been avoiding him recently. Even that day at clinic she hadn’t greeted him as usual when he arrived. In the middle of the afternoon, he saw her take a short break to get a cup of tea. When he headed over to join her, to try to say at least a few words, she had rushed from the hall. He didn’t know if it were him or something else, but he thought better about rushing after her. 

He stood up, suddenly and awkwardly. He was beyond himself with excitement to see her, but it was also slowly occurring to him that such a late, private visit might not be a good omen. 

“Sister Bernadette. What can I do for you?” he said and gestured for her to take a seat. Then waved his cigarette case, a silent offer. 

She shook her head and sank in to the chair. 

His descent back into his chair was less graceful than hers. While he waited for her to speak, he knocked his cigarette against the desk, spun it, knocked it again, then set it between his lips. She still hadn’t spoken by the time he drew his first drag. 

“I needed to ask,” she began haltingly, “if you would approve this test.” She leaned forward and passed a card towards him. 

He looked down and read the request for a pregnancy test. He didn’t recognize the name, but the Nonnatans knew the young women of Poplar better than he. 

“Of course,” he said with a bit of a shrug, as if his nervousness was all for nothing, and reached for his pen to sign. When he handed the card back to her, he thought she looked almost like she was holding her breath. “Is there anything else?” 

For a moment, it seemed like she would say no, at least the way she perched on the edge of the seat, ready to spring up at any moment. But then leaned back into the chair and looked at him. It was the first time he noticed the red around her eyes. Had she been crying, he wondered. 

“Sister? Is something wrong?” 

“I’m not sure yet.” She looked down at the card held tightly between both hands. 

He looked at her face – pale and tense – and then down at the card. Not yet circulated through his brain, the unknown name, the oddity of her request late at night and not via Sister Julienne’s morning visit. He looked back at her face. He suddenly felt bile rising up, burning the back of his throat. 

It had only been a month since their night together. Only a month. But sometimes that was enough. And for Sister Bernadette, with so much experience with pregnancy, he doubted that she was wrong. 

His mind was already jumping ahead, wondering what would she do? How would she cope – a pregnant nun. Certainly, she’d be forced out of the Order. She’d be a woman in disgrace. 

He could fix that. He could perform an abortion, secretly and safely here at his surgery. So early in the pregnancy, things could be comfortably taken care of without the world any wiser. 

But, God, no, he couldn’t do that. Sod legality – the morality of it, the mental toll it would take on this sweet woman. He couldn’t even bring himself to consider mentioning it to her. 

What else could she do? Would she give the child up? Would she try to raise it alone? Where would she go? 

He would marry her. He’d marry her this instant, if he could, but is that what she would want? 

He realized that he’d just been staring at her for what must have been a while, because now she was looking at him curiously. 

“The test is for you?” he finally asked and she nodded. 

“It’s only been a month.” He knew she understood his implication. 

“I should have had my period two weeks ago. Nothing yet. I had some spotting, around that time. I’ve been experiencing occasional nausea. Recently, I’ve been fatigued and find normal exertions overtaxing. And…” She paused and looked down at her lap. “My breasts have become tender.” 

The symptoms were damning. 

He retrieved his forgotten cigarette from the ashtray, re-lit it, and take a calming drag. As he plucked a bit of tobacco off his tongue, he looked back at her. 

“Do you… do you have thoughts…” 

He didn’t really know how to ask the question. He didn’t want to influence her yet; he didn’t want to pressure her if she wasn’t ready to think through the next step. But he wanted to know something to focus his racing thoughts. 

“If the test is positive, then I will ask to go to the Mother House and confess,” she tripped over the word, “confess to the Mother Superior what has transpired. Then my fate will be in her hands.” 

He abandoned his cigarette again and leaned forward. “What does that mean?” 

“I have broken my vows and now I can hardly hide the evidence of that truth.” 

Patrick nearly interrupted to decry the horror of her words, but the sudden spirit that she had found to speak silenced him. 

She drew in a deep breath. “The Mother Superior has every right to force me from the Order and cast me out into the world to survive as best as I am able.” 

Patrick’s chair squeaked as he shifted his weight. He had been hoping that she would come to the decision to leave the Order. He had hoped that her will to continue her vows was eroding under her desires for a family and freedom. But he hated the thought of her being forced out. He hated the thought that something he had done was now forcing her hand in the most uncomfortable way possible. 

“But Mother Jesu Emanuel is kind. As an order of midwives, we are hardly blind to the realities of children born out of wedlock.” He grimaced. “She may offer me lodging to wait out the pregnancy and help to…” 

But then the weight of some of her words caught his attention. He straightened and asked, “Are you considering giving the child up?” 

She shifted under his gaze. She sighed and bowed her hand and flattened a wrinkled corner of the card she still held. “If I can stay at the Mother House for the duration of the pregnancy, then giving it up would probably be the best course of action – to protect you from any negative repercussions.” 

The idea of protecting him from scrutiny startled him. Now that she’d mentioned it, he supposed there would be some bad talk about a man sleeping with a nun. It could hurt his reputation. It could hurt his practice. But that didn’t matter to him. He would take every verbal thrust, if it meant protecting her. 

He moved quickly out of his chair to sit beside her. He took the card from her and tossed it onto his desk, then held both of her hands between his. 

“I don’t care about a negative reputation. The people of Poplar talk and then they move on. And if they don’t – if they can’t, then we move. We go somewhere else where no one knows. But we go together. All four of us.” 

The four of us. Saying it suddenly made everything so real. He saw the image materializing before his eyes, like a photograph coming to life in a dark room: him beaming out at the camera, an arm around Timothy’s bony shoulders; the boy focused on his new little sibling, cooing at it and trying to pull its attention towards the camera; the infant chubby and healthy and slapping its hands together in response to Timothy’s attention; and her. 

He saw reality materialize in her eyes too. 

She slipped her hands away from his. “First step first. I’ll send the test tomorrow. If the result is positive, I’ll go to the Mother House.” 

He knew the conversation was over before she stood up. When she did, he handed her back the card and let her walk to the door, even though every fibre of him longed to hold her. 

He heard the knob turn and the door begin to creak open. He tried to hold himself still. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. But then he called out, “I want to have a say in what happens.” 

She looked back at him, already on the other side of the door. 

“I want to have a say,” he repeated. It felt a little selfish, but he couldn’t bear the thought of not having a say. He couldn’t bear the thought of his own child being abandoned in an orphanage or whisked off to a foster home. He couldn’t bare leaving her with the sense that she was alone in this. 

She didn’t speak, but she nodded clearly.


	3. Chapter 11, alternative ending

Chapter 11, alternative ending 

“I have every right to dismiss you now. You understand that, right?” 

Mother Jesu Emmanuel was an imposing woman. Like Sister Julienne, there could be incredible softness in her, all of which seemed to come from her incredible capacity to listen and offer unbiased advice. But, far more so than Sister Julienne, she had a severity to her continence that came from experiencing an age long before Sister Bernadette had even been born. 

She felt almost as if she were cowering under Mother Jesu’s gaze, her shoulders slumped inward, her hands in her lap, her chin down to her chest so that her eyes gazed steadily at the foot of Mother Jesu’s desk. She nodded, but only barely. 

Then, Mother Jesu sighed and raised herself slightly out of her chair, just enough to reach the warm teapot and pour out two cups of tea. She sat back into the chair before lifting the saucer and teacup off the desk. She didn’t take a sip, just held it close to her body, as if enjoying the warm steam under her chin. 

Finally, she spoke again. “I will not, however. You have always been a great asset to Sister Julienne. A steadfast member of Nonnatus House.” Her words were meant to be compliments, but Sister Bernadette felt them like blocks of guilt and Mother Jesu a mason slathering mortar and pressing the bricks down against her shoulders. 

“I will allow you to remain here until the child comes, if that’s what you wish.” She finished by finally bringing the cup to her lips and taking a sip of her tea. 

Sister Bernadette reached forward and took the cup Mother Jesu had poured for her. 

“As I see it,” Mother Jesu continued. “You have three options: One, you may give up the child and recommit yourself to your vows. But, should you choose to remain in the Order, you will not return to Poplar.” 

Sister Bernadette frowned into her cup. There was something reassuring about knowing that she could choose to remain in the Order. She could rededicate herself and her whole being to the duty she had felt ten years ago and start afresh. But, if she could not return to Poplar, to her friends and the mothers she had tended, to Dr Turner and his kindness, to the place she truly felt at home, if felt as if there was no purpose to such vows. 

“Two, we will help you to give up the child and transition away from the religious life.”

This was, of course, the response she most expected from Mother Jesu, but it was no less difficult to hear spoken. 

“Three, you may choose to keep the child.” 

The words created a flurry of hope in her chest. Sister Bernadette looked up to find Mother Jesu staring quite intensely at her. “As you consider keeping the child, I implore you to think seriously about the ramifications of raising a child without a husband.” 

“There will be a father.” 

The words slipped past her lips almost reflexively. She hadn’t practiced them. She hadn’t even decided fully that she would admit his existence. But she felt the truth of her words so powerfully, so intuitively, they had just flown out of her. 

Mother Jesu’s eyebrows rose and her lips pressed tightly together. Sister Bernadette realized she was trying to conceal her surprise, and perhaps disapproval. 

The mistake was made and now Sister Bernadette wanted to try to reassure Mother Jesu of her certainty. “If I keep the child, he has already offered…” 

But Mother Jesu’s posture – the stiffness of it, the way she shifted almost imperceptibly in her chair – made Sister Bernadette trail off. Her meaning was clear enough, without exposing any more. 

“And the father is?” 

Sister Bernadette looked down at her hands. Her vow of obedience meant that she should reveal his name, but she felt that if she said the father was the GP of Poplar, Mother Jesu would feel obligated to report him, at least to tell Sister Julienne. She worried what might happen to him. 

“I…” she struggled for a moment to deny Mother Jesu. But then she looked up and said, “I’m not sure that I’m prepared to say just now.” 

Mother Jesu was obviously displeased with that answer. Her cheek twitched a little as she tensed her jaw, but she sighed and had obviously decided not to push. 

Instead, she asked, “He knows your situation?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he has offered to marry you and take care of the child?” 

“Yes.” 

Mother Jesu took a moment to consider this. In the silence, she brought her cup to her lips and the slopping of the tea against the backside of the cup, the slurping of it going over Mother Jesu’s tongue, the gulping of it being swallowed down Mother’s throat, all seemed disturbingly loud to Sister Bernadette. 

“And he’s a stable man?” Mother Jesu asked suddenly. “He has employment? The ability to care for you?” 

Sister Bernadette nodded in answer to each question.   
Then, Mother Jesu’s final question: “You trust his word?” 

She didn’t hesitate and finally spoke. “Yes.”

Mother Jesu took another sip of tea, then brought the cup to rest hovering near her breasts. “I want you to consider this question carefully, Sister. The father is obviously a good man, a man you trust and are close to. And now you are pregnant with his child. Why, then, have you not accepted his offer? Why are you here instead, still in the habit?” 

Sister Bernadette just watched Mother Jesu’s teacup rise and fall steadily with the nun’s breathing. She was stunned, in part because the question was so radically unexpected that Mother Jesu had blindsided her, but also in part because the question was so blaringly obvious Sister Bernadette was a little embarrassed that she hadn’t considered it. 

It took her a moment to realize that she had an answer. One deeply intertwined with a sense of duty to the Order, the feeling of shame in her actions, and a deep, urgent, unutterable desire for someone else to simply tell her what to do. She wanted choice and independence of thought, and yet now she wanted someone else to tell her how she ought to conduct her life. 

Even as she understood these thoughts and feelings, she had no words with which to convey them to Mother Jesu and so she remained silent. 

She heard the sound of Mother Jesu clicking her tongue against the top of her mouth, the clattering of her teacup against the saucer, before her voice. 

“While you are here, we will consider this a period of exclaustration.” 

Sister Bernadette looked up. A cool sensation washed over her – something between relief and dread. 

“I think it best if you don’t wear the habit for the duration of your… condition. Your vows of poverty and obedience will be relaxed, slightly, but not gone.” Sister Bernadette thought she stressed the word “obedience” rather harshly, as if she wanted to emphasize the importance of continuing to follow the religious life. 

Mother Jesu continued, “You are not obligated to attend daily duties, but I do require that you spend you first month here in reflection. I hope that you take the time to weigh your options and carefully move towards a decision.”

Sister Bernadette nodded. The stipulations seemed fair. 

Mother Jesu brought her cup to her lips, but stopped to consider something further. 

She looked at Sister Bernadette sternly. “And I won’t tolerate contact with the father. I want you to spend the month coming to your own decision.” 

Sister Bernadette leaned forward and immediately tried to protest. 

“No,” Mother Jesu interrupted before any words could escape her. 

Sister Bernadette held Mother Jesu’s gaze. Her body was tense, caught in its forward motion. Her mouth slightly opened with her objections wavering on the back of her tongue. 

Mother Jesu had already been kinder than she needed to be and Sister Bernadette understood that she had broken – completely shattered – one of her vows, and that any additional act of insolence and defiance would not be tolerated. But Dr Turner had asked so little from her – in fact, he had asked only one thing. 

Reluctantly, Sister Bernadette swallowed and nodded. 

She watched Mother Jesu take a long sip of tea, relishing the warm, slightly sweetened liquid. Only once she had finished her drink, only once she was certain that Sister Bernadette would keep her peace, did she dismiss the younger woman. 

Sister Bernadette deposited her nearly full cup of tea back on Mother Jesu’s desk, rose silently, and exited with as little disturbance as possible. 

/-/-

After three weeks at the Mother House, Shelagh – as she’d been calling herself – had fallen into a daily routine. 

She would rise with her Sisters and join them in the chapel for Lauds. She had chosen a spot near the entrance, in the back row, where she felt she wasn’t interrupting an order already established by the resident nuns. 

When they all left, she remained and spent some time in silent prayer and meditation. She spent this time on Mother Jesu’s question: why was she here, still in the habit, and not with Dr Turner? 

The first half of her answer had been easy to come to. On her second day at the Mother House, as her Sisters silently exited the chapel, Shelagh had knelt before the altar in prayer. She’d looked up at the yellow light streaming in from the rising sun and remembered the devasted woman who had first arrived there, eleven years ago. 

Her brother had just died. Without him, nothing in the house seemed real. Everywhere she went felt like walking in a dream. She belonged nowhere and with no one. But there had been warmth here, at the Mother House. There had been acceptance and love and sisterhood she had never known in Scotland. 

She dreaded, perhaps even feared, leaving all of that. 

But that wasn’t a complete answer. Because she could leave all of that for the love of a child, for the promise of a man’s love. The thought was terrifying, but she could do it. 

Twenty-three days later, however, she still hadn’t found the rest of the answer. Now, Shelagh remained in her seat near the entrance of the chapel and continued to pray. 

She searched deep inside her for an answer. There was a thought that flittered around, but she was too nervous to face it and allow it to shape itself into words. 

She had chosen to skip breakfasts – a meagre form of fasting – so she could take long walks through the gardens in complete silence, without any worry of interrupting others or being interrupted herself. 

There was another question Mother Jesu had asked her to consider closely: would she give the child up or keep it? 

Over the past three weeks, she had performed exercises where she tried to imagine these different scenarios playing out. 

She began the experiment on her fourth day as she walked through the gardens. It was a chilly morning and the air was damp, but she made her circuit regardless. She began by trying to imagine remaining a nun after the experience. She would not return to Poplar, that was the only thing certain in this course. 

She wondered where she might go. Perhaps she would remain at the Mother House for the rest of her days, destine to help with these poor orphans. Would her own child be among them? Or would it be sent off quickly to some happy parents? 

Too involved with her own thoughts, she had stopped and lowered herself onto a low rock wall. Beside her was the herb garden and she was momentarily overwhelmed by the earthy, familiar scents. 

Would she be sent to another posting? She had never been anywhere but Poplar. There were cottage hospitals and Mother and Baby homes and other places like Nonnatus throughout Great Britain. Would she be sent to any one of those? Back to Scotland, perhaps? Or abroad? Would she be punished by a mission trip? (She had to scold herself for thinking of a relief mission as a personal punishment, but right now that’s what it would feel like.) 

Wherever God would send her, she couldn’t imagine herself forming the same bonds of love and trust with her new sisters, as she’d be so unable to give herself over to complete honesty. 

She reached out and ran her fingers along the vivacious rosemary stems and she smiled at a brief memory of helping Timothy with his supper. As soon as the smile had begun to form, as soon as the memory came into full bloom, the pain of loss struck her. If she remained a nun, she would never see Dr Turner or Timothy again. 

Shelagh had started crying in the misty garden, surrounding by rosemary and thyme and sage, and hardly knew how to make it herself stop for hours. 

After breakfast, the orphans were released into the gardens for fresh air and play. Every day, they rushed from the doors and raced across the lawn. And every day, Shelagh smiled after them and took this as her cue to retreat into the quiet of the chapel again for more prayer. 

But today she was feeling especially tired and the chapel had felt cold and unyielding to her reflection. Instead, she sat on a bench under the shade of a lovely old tree. She used to sit in this same spot during her early days at the Mother House and study from her nursing materials and sitting there now, watching the little ones shriek with laughter, felt like a touchstone to her past self. What was it she had wanted ten years ago? Why had she come here to the Order? 

It had been clear from their meeting that Mother Jesu preferred the idea that Shelagh would emerge from this ordeal childless – whether she remained in the Order or returned to Poplar. And, in many ways, Shelagh accepted that that would be the easiest course of action. 

Shelagh had witnessed many births in Poplar that ended with the mother handing off their child, never to see them again. Most had been very young, unwed girls, forced by their parents to keep everything unsaid. Many had been desperate women – prostitutes; the young and unwed; sometimes those with too many to fed already and not enough to go around; once by a woman whose husband had died shortly after she’d fallen pregnant. There was something about living in a situation when you have no control (desperation, after all, is just another way of being forced) that gave these women shocking strength of will. 

Shelagh imagined herself in their position. She imagined spending nine months carrying the child, feeling it grow inside of her and getting to know the baby in such an intimate way. She imagined spending the hours of pain until her labours were over. She imagined experiencing the exhaustion and exhilaration of childbirth, of having the child placed in her arms, of holding this tiny being against her sweaty skin, hearing it cry and coo against her, seeing it half open its weary eyes and look up at her – and then giving the child over to one of her Sisters, the Sister handing it off to an adoption agent, and the child whisked off. 

She had witnessed it dozens of times. She had been the one to take the babe from the mother’s arms and hand it off more times than her heart really wanted to bear. She had been there to dry the mother’s tears and her milk. 

She couldn’t fool herself and paint the experience in any easier terms. The women she had seen had had no choice, they’d been desperate, some had even claimed that they didn’t want the child, but all of them had sobbed when the baby had been taken away, all of them had been struck by different levels of depression, all of them struggled in some way to cope. 

A group of children ran past her. One laughed, high and piercing, and another giggled, loud and spill from deep in the belly. Shelagh smiled at the cluster of them. 

Orphaned children sometimes found loving homes. Sometimes landed in stable foster homes. Even here, there was care and safety. 

Shelagh laid a hand over her belly. She was only eight weeks along, but she could feel the changes happening to her body. It was interesting, she thought, that – despite knowing exactly what to expect and approximately when – the changes were a constant and even pleasant surprise. 

All these children running around her had been orphaned by fate or by choice. Here, they were being looked after. There was some love. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough. 

For hours, Shelagh remained on the bench, her thoughts tumbling around. Eventually, when the tree’s shade all but disappeared and her stomach growled with hunger, she rose and found that she had arrived just a few minutes late for lunch. 

Mother Jesu cast a disapproving look as she entered the room. Shelagh bowed her head in apology and took her seat in the middle of the table. 

She wore lay clothes now, and had since her first day there. After her meeting with Mother Jesu, another Sister had shown her to the donation closet. She’d watched Sister Bernadette in silent judgement as she selected a few outfits to wear for the duration of her stay. At the lunch table, surrounded by elderly Sisters resting in their retirement, by novices not yet in full habits – surrounded, it felt like, by a score of nuns – Shelagh had never felt more like a stranger. She was an outcast among Sisters. 

In the silence of lunch, Shelagh sometimes reflected on a bitter thought: If she had forced Sister Julienne to listen to her when she first went to speak to her, if she had imposed herself for once in her life, if she had insisted on being heard, would she have gotten herself into this trouble?

After lunch, even though she wasn’t obligated to, Shelagh helped the Sisters with the orphans. 

There was one boy who particularly caught Shelagh’s eye on her second day there. He was about five years old with glasses too big for his round face. He had sandy hair and freckles and bright red lips. The Sisters told Shelagh that the boy was sullen and stubbornly refused to speak. But Shelagh could tell that he was dreamer. 

By her fifth day at the Mother House, she had noticed that he liked to sit on a rock wall and kick his heels against the rocks and stare up at the clouds. She sat down beside him and watched the clouds with him. After a time, when she felt his body relax and accept her beside him, she pointed up at a cloud and asked if he thought it looked like a horse. He laughed and pointed to a cloud that looked like a bucket. And they happily spent the late afternoon looking up. When he didn’t expect it, when his chin was lifted up high so he could watch the sky, she’d reach out and tickle his belly and he’d laugh until he couldn’t breathe. She thought it was so sad to listen to his breathless giggling peter out and think that the nuns found him difficult. 

And then, there was the sweetest little four-year-old girl. Shelagh noticed her on her third day at the Mother House as the girl walked through the hallway with her peers, an organized line of them heading to dinner. She had straw coloured hair and the cutest rounded cheeks. She carried a dolly everywhere she went and Shelagh couldn’t help but wonder, standing in the hallway with a book under her arm, waiting for the line of children to pass, whether her family had given it to her before she came to this place. 

Only a few days ago, well into her second week at the Mother House, Shelagh had watched the little girl come out into the yard with the rest of the children in the mid-afternoon. She took her dolly to the garden and laid down on her belly. She had the dolly walk around the garden’s edge, pretending to weed and dig. Entertained and curious, Shelagh knelt down beside the girl. She adjusted her skirt, flattening it around her knees, and asked the girl her name. The little girl wouldn’t say much, but Shelagh quickly found that she loved to talk about her dolly and so Shelagh asked what the dolly’s name was and what flowers the dolly loved the most, and so Shelagh discovered that the doll, or perhaps the girl, loved lilies and sunflowers and (to Sister Monica Joan’s delight) dandelions. 

But today, on day twenty-three of her time at the Mother House, the weather had turned foul. A light drizzle had begun during lunch and was now it was raining just hard enough to be inclement, but not so hard as to produce a delightful lull against the roof. 

And so the Sisters ushered the children into an activity room where they could draw or read or engage in certain indoor games. Shelagh joined them and sat with a little girl named Gabrielle. 

This little girl, with dark brown hair cut to her shoulders, had come right up to Shelagh the first day and took her hand. She loved to draw and several days during her stay, Shelagh had sat at a low table and drew pictures as the girl coloured. It had been a while since Shelagh had been able to draw whatever she wanted, but during her days with Gabrielle, she had started to draw more and more of the things on her mind – she drew one of Timothy, and one of Dr Turner, and then her Sisters back at Nonnatus House. She found Sister Monica Joan a delightful challenge, all the age lines tricky to get right without her model before her. 

And Gabrielle seemed to love each one of Shelagh’s pictures because, after she finished them, Gabrielle would crawl into Shelagh’s lap and ask to her the story of the person in the picture. And Shelagh would oblige and try to remember a particularly funny story about each one of them. The girl must have thought they were all made up characters, like in a picture book, but it made Shelagh feel at home. 

Today, as the rain drizzled down the windows, Shelagh drew another picture of Dr Turner, his face the first one on her mind. 

When she looked down at his kind eyes, the crow’s feet around his eyes, the softness of his expression, she was seized by a sudden fear: how could she return to Poplar in eight months without the child? How could she look at this man who she cared for, who had expressed his love for her in so many silent ways, knowing she had given away his child? 

They couldn’t go back to normal – of course not, their normal had been based around her life as a nun and a relationship based on a secret fantasy. But could they build a new relationship on such a powerful loss? Could they even remain friends after what would transpire? Shelagh knew her heart couldn’t survive giving up the baby without him there to comfort her. 

She was just finishing some shading around his lips when Gabrielle crawled into her lap. The little girl, eight years old, was warm and heavy in her lap. A comforting hold on reality while Shelagh’s mind felt lost in uncertain fantasies. 

“You’ve already told me a story about him,” Gabrielle said and pointed at the character on the page. 

And Shelagh smiled and gave the girl a quick squeeze. She smelt of bland soap and grass. “Let me tell you a different story then,” Shelagh offered and instead of Dr Turner, she told Gabrielle about this lanky, freckled, brown-haired boy who came back from a war and married a girl she didn’t name. She told Gabrielle about a lovely life. 

It was a dream that had propelled Shelagh through the war and that had kept her afloat even a few months after the telegram arrived announcing Michael’s death. 

After Gabrielle jumped down and ran off to play with the other children, Shelagh continued to sit there and looked down at her belly. All she could think was how could she give up this miracle? How could she leave the child to think that its parents didn’t love it, didn’t want it, couldn’t look after it? She had had dreams once. Why had she let the war destroy them all? 

/-/-

At the end of the month, Shelagh sat in Mother Jesu Emmanuel’s office. The reception felt as cold and as formal as her meeting at the beginning of the month, but this time Shelagh sat in lay clothes. She sat quietly and respectfully, but she felt like she knew her mind for the first time in a decade. 

“I do not expect you to have made a firm decision,” Mother Jesu began the conversation, “but I hope you feel more clarity on the matter.”

Mother Jesu folded her hands on her desk. She raised her chin a little, so that it felt as if she were looking down at Shelagh. It was a posture that had always intimidated Shelagh in the past. 

She took a deep breath and nodded and said, “I’m going to keep the child.”

The corner of Mother Jesu’s lip twitched and Shelagh knew that she was trying to hide her dissatisfaction. 

But Shelagh continued, “I’m going to keep the child and… I want to return to Poplar.”

Mother Jesu nodded. “After the child –” she began, but Shelagh cut her off. 

“As soon as possible.” Her voice was even and calm, but firm. It was a confidence that Shelagh felt throughout her entire body and she was glad it resonated in her voice. “It’s time that I left the Order, Mother.” She held Mother Jesu’s gaze and saw the woman softening as she spoke. “I have spent the better part of this year knowing that something was wrong and knowing that I wanted more than the religious life could offer me. This is not the order that I wished events to happen, but they have.”

Mother Jesu eyed her carefully and spoke, “And the father?” 

Shelagh nodded. “I know he will honour his offer of marriage. I know that he will take care of me and the child. He is a good man.”

“A good man would not have gotten a nun into trouble,” Mother Jesu said with a frown. 

There was truth in what she said, and yet Shelagh bristled at the remark and defended Dr Turner. “It is not the mistake that determines a man’s character, but how he accepts his responsibility for the consequences.”

There was a pause in which Mother Jesu tried to stare down Shelagh, to wait until the younger woman looked down at her lap in deference, but Shelagh stubbornly refused. 

Finally, Mother Jesu looked down at her desk and said, “If you are certain.” As she spoke, Mother Jesu opened a drawer, as if to take something out, but then she looked back to Shelagh for confirmation. 

“I am certain.”

At Shelagh’s words, Mother Jesu took out a form and began filling out some information. Then she presented the form to Shelagh. “All you need to do is sign,” she said and slid her fountain pen across the desk. 

Shelagh sat forward in her chair and hesitated for just a moment. Relinquishing her vows suddenly felt harder than she expected. 

That morning, as she had knelt in prayer after Lauds, the other half of her answer had finally come to her. 

Once she joined the Order, once she took her vows and donned the habit, she relinquished any need to make decisions. God made decisions about her life. The Mother Superior interpreted those decisions and told her where she’d go and what she’d do. The Head Sister at Nonnatus House told her what she’d do and when she’d work. The religious life gave her a daily schedule of prayer and duties. Her training told her how to handle every case and medical emergency. She had lived a life without the stress of deciding anything. And it had been enjoyable and safe and easy, in its way, for a long time. 

To sign the form was to make a choice to lead a life of choices. To sign the form was to chose to leave the warmth of her Sisters, to leave a family that had loved her for over a decade. 

She picked up the pen and placed the tip on a line near the bottom of the form. But she had a new family with the Turners and her baby on the way and she knew there was no choice except to have the child. 

She signed and immediately set the pen back on the table. Then she noticed her ring she was still wearing. Carefully, she removed it and felt the emptiness between her fingers. It reminded her of her first “holiday” with Dr Turner and there certainly was some sort of irony or symbolism in her removing the ring in reality to marry him in law. 

“I will collect your possessions and release them to you in afternoon.” 

And that was it. She was dismissed from Mother Jesu’s office. She was no longer a nun. She was no longer part of the Order. She had worldly possessions again. She wasn’t really sure what to do with herself now. 

She was too anxious to go play with the children and instead took a walk through the garden. As she looked out at the gate, she suddenly realized that she could leave right now. She could go wherever she pleased. The idea was fleeting, as she had no money currently, but nevertheless it was her first taste of freedom. Her choice to remain for the night.

She returned to the house and asked to use the phone to make a short call. 

She held her breath as the phone connected. The line rang once, twice, a third time. She feared no one would answer. Then, “Dr Turner’s surgery.” She recognized the high tones of Timothy’s voice and his presence there surprised her, until she realized he was on break and she smiled in delight at hearing him. 

“Hello, Timothy.” 

“Sister Bernadette!” 

His excitement was intoxicating and she smiled into the phone. “Yes, it’s me.” 

“You missed the most amazing day ever, Sister!” And, just like it was any other day, he launched off telling her about a bike race and a butterfly collection. He would hardly stop for breath until, in the background, Shelagh thought she heard another voice. Timothy stopped talking to her and spoke to someone else, saying “It’s Sister Bernadette, dad!” 

Dr Turner. 

She held her breath. He was there and it sounded like he was kicking Timothy off the phone, because there was some noise and then:

“Sister Bernadette.” 

His voice sounded different over the phone, but the same kind, excited tone. She smiled and wrapped her other hand around the receiver. 

“I don’t answer to that name any longer.”


	4. Chapter 12, alternative ending

On Fridays, Patrick made a point to be home by 5pm, in time to sit with Timothy as he did his homework and to warm up the dinner left by Mrs. Fletcher.

He parked his car outside the flat and sat there for a moment with his hand frozen on the stick and the engine running. It was a rainy, dank day and the dreariness had seeped into his mood. Or perhaps the weather was only reflecting it.

The sound of the motor idling suddenly shook him from his grogginess. He cut the engine, took his keys and checked his watch. Ten minutes late. Damn, he had been running early for a few minutes.

When he entered the house, he was surprised to see the table set, a pot of tea in the centre, covered with a knit cosy. Then Timothy popped his head through the kitchen window and smiled brightly at him. “I have tea ready! And dinner in the oven.” Timothy rushed around through the door to greet his dad. “And I bought us chocolate covered biscuits on my way home.”

Patrick quickly discarded his jacket and bag and engulfed his son in a hug.

“What’s all this for?”

Timothy looked up at his as he pulled away from the hug. “You’ve seemed sad recently. I got your favourite biscuits.”

Patrick took a seat at the table and Timothy poured them each a cup and then dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into his cup.

“I have been sad recently, Tim, and I’m sorry if I haven’t been the best flatmate because of it.”

Timothy picked up a biscuit and nibbled on the edge. “Are you sad because Sister Bernadette is gone?”

What a perceptive little boy, Patrick thought as he reached for a biscuit of his own.

“I miss her too, dad.”

Patrick looked down at his biscuit, unsure how to answer.

“Thank you, Tim. These are my favourite biscuits. You shouldn’t have spent your pocket money on me.”

The boy smiled and finished the last of his first biscuit. “Did the surprise make you happy?”

Patrick’s expression softened. “You make me happy.”

The boy reached for another biscuit, but then looked to his father for permission. Patrick smiled and nodded, then finally relaxed into his seat and took a bite of his own.

Perhaps it was time to talk to him. Changes were very likely coming to the Turner household, and changes that he couldn’t really define just yet. But it was unfair to keep Timothy so completely in the dark.

“Tim, can we talk man-to-man?”

The boy stopped eating mid-chew and smiled, pronouncing the chocolate covered corners of his mouth. Patrick took that as an answer. He leaned forward towards Tim.

“You like Sister Bernadette, right?”

“Yeah! She’s great! Do you know when she’ll be coming home?”

Patrick sighed. “That’s part of what I wanted to speak with you about. You see, Sister Bernadette left to... make a decision about whether or not to leave the Order.”

“You mean, she doesn’t want to be a nun anymore?”

Patrick nodded.

“Why?” The boy asked.

“Well...” Patrick tried to think how best to answer this. Finally, he decided to be as truthful as he was able to. “I think she wants a family.”

Timothy nodded and set his teacup back on its saucer. “She would make a wonderful mother!”

Patrick smiled at Tim’s enthusiasm. “She will.”

Timothy looked down and rocked his legs against the chair. He seemed to resist the urge to grab another biscuit as he thought.

“Do you think she will?” he asked. “Do you think she’ll leave the Order?”

Patrick frowned. “It will be a very difficult decision for her. But... If I’m honest, Tim, I really hope she does. Because, you see... I think I’m in love with her. And, if she chooses to leave the Order, then I... Well, I’d like to ask her to join our family.”

Patrick paused and wet his lips and looked breathlessly down at his son. It was so important to him that this idea pleased Timothy, or he had no idea how he would begin to build his new world.

But Timothy was very quiet for a moment. His feet went still and he looked down at the floor near Patrick’s chair.

Patrick leaned forward and placed a hand on Timothy’s knee. “You can tell me how you’re feeling. No matter what it is.”

“I feel... Confused.” The boy’s brows knit together and he seemed to be trying to make sense of colossal feelings.

“Confused about what?”

“Well…” Timothy bit his lip. “I really like Sister Bernadette and I think she would be a wonderful mother. And I know she can cook really well and she’d be home to help me with homework. And I know she sings beautifully, so maybe she would help me with my piano lessons. And I know she makes you happy. I know her being gone is making you sad.”

Timothy paused and Patrick nodded, trying to encourage him to continue.

Timothy struggled with his question. “Would I have to call her mum?”

“Not if you don’t want to.” Then realization struck Patrick. “Timothy, she would never want to replace your mum. I don’t want to replace your mum. We’ll always have her in our hearts and our memories. But mum wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad forever.”

“I think mum would have liked Sister Bernadette very much.”

Patrick smiled. “I do too.”

Timothy smiled at his dad and said, “I really hope she leaves the Order. I really hope she comes to live with us.”

Patrick smiled at his son and felt a small weight leave him. This was a start. Now, he only needed her to come home to him.

Timothy drank his tea and began to talk about school and his homework and what the Cubs were getting up to next week. Patrick listened patiently and nursed his cup and asked questions where appropriate. Until, suddenly, Timothy said:

“If you marry Sister Bernadette, will I get brothers and sisters?”

It was at once a remarkably childish question and entirely shocking.

Patrick’s hand trembled slightly and he took a breath to steady himself.

“Would you like siblings?” He asked as he looked down at the floor.

“I think so. I guess they can be sort of annoying at times, but all my friends have siblings. And if I’m a big brother, then I can boss them around and teach them things. I could play with them.” Timothy nodded and reached for another biscuit. “At least two siblings, but no more than four.” Then he suddenly looked up. “They won’t affect my pocket money, will they?”

This made Patrick burst into laughter. “No, they won’t. And I’m glad that you’d want siblings. I think I would enjoy that as well.”

/-/-

It was the third Tuesday since she had left for the Mother House and Dr Turner stood in front of the window to the kitchen, aimlessly stirring the spoon in his tea. 

She had left on a Monday morning and last Tuesday – the first clinic she had missed – had been the hardest to bear. Young expectant women and new mothers and mothers on their sixth child were asking after her (the “little nun” some were calling her, if they didn’t quite remember her name; or “Sister Bernadette” to the mothers she’d been with through their deliveries) and all the nurses smiled and suggested she was just on holiday. Sister Evangelina would quickly refocus on the conversation on the task at hand and Sister Julienne would calmly suggest she had taken a sabbatical for prayer, as if it were a perfectly normal thing for a nun to do. But every time Dr Turner heard a mother refer to Sister Bernadette, he felt a stab of pain. Only one day and he already missed her desperately. 

A week later, he hadn’t heard from her. He was starting to feel cut adrift again. He forgot to take his evening rounds entirely on Wednesday, thinking that it was Friday. He’d arrived at the Surgery only to discover that it was, in fact, Sunday. He’d arrive three hours early for clinic that week, because he’d woken so early that he truly figured it must already be time. 

And now, on the third Tuesday, he had not seen Sister Bernadette for two full weeks. He had also not heard from her once. 

He had written to her. He wrote after the first Tuesday, to ask how she was settling in and how she was feeling. He wrote three days later, when it was properly Friday, while Timothy did his homework and he sat with him at the dinner table. He had written her again the follow Tuesday to tell her how unbearable her absence really was. He told her that he felt like he was losing his grip on reality without her there to hold time still. He had smoked so many cigarettes that day that his hand was a little twitchy and his handwriting was harder to read than normal. He had written again the next day, thinking that days had passed, and he wrote about nothing in particular – just his patients and his rounds and updated her on some of the births that had happened. A few days later, on the second Friday since she’d left, he remained wideawake after Timothy’s surprise. He wrote about Timothy – about his observation, about his thoughtfulness, about their conversation. He promised her that Timothy would be happy to have her join their family, and that he was excited for siblings, and that Patrick knew she would be a phenomenal mom. 

But it was now the third Tuesday. It had been two weeks since she had left and not a single letter had received a response. 

Patrick moved the spoon from his cup and it clattered against the saucer when he set it down. The sound seemed to interrupt Trixie’s line of thought, because the constant flow of her words paused – like a hiccup – and it drew in Patrick’s attention. He looked over to see Trixie was folding nappies on the window ledge while Sister Julienne had joined her in the kitchen to pour herself a cup of tea. 

“I do miss Sister Bernadette at times like these,” Trixie lamented. “She could fold a stack of nappies in the blink of an eye!” 

Patrick smiled at the mention of her. Sister Julienne just nodded and continued her task. Patrick hesitated. He looked between the women. Then he set his cup down on the ledge and took his cue. 

“How is Sister Bernadette?” 

Sister Julienne straightened and looked at him. Her smile seemed a little strained, a little tired. “I received word from Mother Jesu Emmanuel that she has settled in and is undertaking a month-long period of quiet reflection and prayer.” 

“And what does that mean, exactly?” 

Sister Julienne seemed annoyed at being stopped from taking her tea and leaving. But she looked up at the Doctor with compassion. “It means that she has much to think about and will be given the space she needs at the Mother House to consider her thoughts.” 

Sister Julienne tried to leave again but the Doctor pushed his luck and said, “I tried writing to her – just, Tim wanted to ask her something,” he felt a little guilty blaming his letters on Timothy, but he knew his interest was already overdone, “but I hadn’t heard back from her yet.” 

“No.” Sister Julienne pressed her lips together and then sighed. “Most likely Mother Jesu has forbidden her from receiving outside communication, at least during her month of contemplation.” 

“Why?” 

Sister Julienne’s eyes darted over the length of him. An emotion flashed across her piercing eyes so briefly the Doctor didn’t understand what he saw. She sighed again. “Sister Bernadette has gone to the Mother House where she can think without any outside distractions or obligations. I hope you understand, Doctor. It would be best to wait until she returns to contact her again.” 

She walked away and Patrick watched her go. Her shoulders seemed tense, her posture rigid, until the moment she came into view of her patient – a 19-year-old, first time mother; a girl Dr Turner used to treat for mild asthma – and the nun melted into a warm, striking presence. 

Dr Turner turned back to his cold tea and looked down into its brown depths. He felt somehow like Sister Julienne had read straight through him. Patrick wondered, briefly, if Sister Bernadette had been forced to tell her everything in order to get permission to go to the Mother House. He wouldn’t mind if she had, but she hadn’t said anything to him and that kind of secret didn’t sit well with Patrick. 

“We all miss her, Dr Turner.” 

Trixie’s voice surprised him. He snapped his head up in her direction. She was smiling softly, almost knowingly at him. What she knew, he didn’t know, but perhaps only the same sadness Tim intuitively knew had been caused by Sister Bernadette’s absence. 

/-/-

It was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday and Dr Turner was in his Surgery. The office had closed in time for his lunch and afternoon rounds, and now remained closed for his hour of paperwork and administrative duties. He had just kicked Timothy out of his office, who was distracting him with too many questions, to do some instrument cleaning. 

Patrick couldn’t concentrate. He’d been having a rough time of keeping track of time, keeping his eyes focused on patients’ faces and ears focused on hearing their words, all throughout the week. And now, in the quiet of his office, he couldn’t seem to get his eyes to focus well enough to make out a single word on the page. 

He sighed and sank back into his chair. Impulsively, his hand reached into his breast pocket and dug around for his cigarette case, but he couldn’t find it. He rubbed his face and tried to think. Where had he had his last cigarette. Probably in the exam room. 

It was during this very brief march out of his office and down the hall to the exam room when he heard the telephone ring. 

He found his cigarette case quickly – right on the counter where he often accidentally set it down – and rushed back to the receptionist desk. There, Timothy sat in the chair, the receiver pressed clumsily to his ear, using both hands to steady the phone near his mouth. 

Timothy was in the middle of telling someone about his day with the Cubs when he broke off suddenly to tell Patrick, “It’s Sister Bernadette, dad!” 

Those words cast away all the cloudiness and all the numbness that had been dampening every effort of Patrick’s for the past month. He reached out a hand and silently demanded the phone. When the receiver was safely in his hand, he gestured for Timothy to go finish his cleaning duties and the boy, pouting and protesting, dragged his feet towards the back room. 

“Sister Bernadette.” 

He heard breathing on the other end of the receiver, then: “I don’t answer to that name any longer.” 

He had missed her voice so much. The softness of it, the lilting, seductive accent. Her words struck a memory, an image of a medical card, a test request. A name he hadn’t recognized. “Shelagh?”

“Yes.” Her reply was shy, perhaps a little surprised. “I’ve decided I’m coming home.” 

“When?” 

“Tomorrow.” There was a pause while he tried to process so much change, so unexpectedly. When he said nothing in response, she continued. “I have already signed the paperwork. I’m no longer a Sister in the Order of Raymond Nonnatus. And…” 

Her voice trailed off and Patrick found himself holding his breath, desperate to know anything – everything – about her decisions. 

“I’ve decided I’m keeping the child. No matter what that means for me, I couldn’t bear to give it up.” 

“I’m coming to get you first thing tomorrow morning,” he said in immediate response. 

“Doctor –” 

“Patrick,” he corrected. 

“Patrick,” she said, and he missed the next thing she said, so focused on the way her voice seemed to get stuck on the ‘a’ and skip onto a hard ‘t’ in his name. The way the final ‘k’ sound was somehow both short and elongated. How musical everything she said always was. 

“I’m coming to get you. And I’m bringing you home. We’ll sort out the rest later.” 

And Patrick felt a second, small weight leave him. She was coming home. And they were keeping the child. And Timothy was excited for both Shelagh and a little sibling. But there were so many small details: where would she live until they could get married; how quickly could they get married; did she even want to get married; how would he propose; what would people think; would they try to hide the pregnancy at all; would she want to keep working as a midwife; how would her friends think of her, think of them; he needed to get a ring. 

Patrick stood there, holding the receiver to his ear long after they said their goodbyes, feeling his anxiety mount. There were so many little things to worry about and deal with and he couldn’t do any of them without her. He tried to shake the worries from his mind and deal with the present. 

He needed to get a ring. 

Patrick dropped the receiver back onto the base and went in search of Timothy. If they went now, the jeweller should still be opened. 

/-/-


	5. Chapter 13, alternative ending

The next morning, Shelagh woke to the sound of Lauds drifting down the corridor. 

She washed her face carefully and thoroughly. Something felt important about starting this day refreshed and renewed. She brushed her hair, slowly and methodically, watching her reflection in the mirror as each stroke moved in a steady rhythm. 

Yesterday had felt like the shortest day of her life, and yet it had also felt like the longest. 

After her meeting with Mother Jesu, another Sister had delivered her suitcase and a small bundle of unread letters. The case had sat in storage for over ten years; the letters, on the other hand, were rather new. 

There were six letters, all from Dr Turner. 

Back in her room, she set the letters on her nightstand and forced herself to focused on the suitcase. Inside, she found an outfit she hardly remembered. She pulled the jacket off the top and held it up in front of her by the shoulders. It looked like the war. By that, she meant it instantly brought forward thoughts of wartime photos, of women waving soldiers goodbye and women in groups heading to their wartime jobs. 

She spent lunchtime washing her shirt and undergarments by hand. She spent her early afternoon brushing down her coat and skirt, then leaving them hanging by the opened window to air out. There was the faint smell of musk on everything, but nothing had gotten ruined in its time wasting away in the Mother House’s attic. 

Then her shoes. They were the practical, ugly, formless shoes of the early 40s. They were nothing like the simple, but cute shoes Dr Turner had bought for her, but they would do their duty. She wasted away another hour out on the porch cleaning and polishing and making them as presentable as she was able. 

It had occurred to her that she could have worn the more modern things she had borrowed from the donation closet, but she didn’t feel right doing so. When she left the Mother House, she would take nothing that hadn’t come with her. 

Back in her room, she had carefully folded her habit – the one she had arrived in – and placed it on the dresser. It would stay with the Mother House. 

Then she looked over at her two empty cases. The one she would return to Sister Julienne as soon as she was able. The other was hers. She shut the one that belonged to Nonnatus House and set it by the door for the morning. Hers she left open near the window, to air the old age from it. 

As darkness crept in and she had nothing else to occupy herself with preparing for the next day, she turned her attention to Dr Turner’s letters. 

She felt a strange reluctance to read them, as if they might contain a sudden rejection of her or the baby. She feared his anger that she had failed to contact him. 

But as her fingers traced the letters he had scrawled across the envelope, she longed to be close to him in any way she could. She took the first letter and carefully tore open the flap. 

As the music of Lauds went silent, Shelagh walked over to her suitcase to place her brush and toiletry bag in the case. A small part of her trembled to think that this was all she had in the entire world. A single outfit, a decade out of date that still carried the faint, stale air of 1947. A single, slightly worn suitcase. A hair brush. A bag with modest toiletries – really just a toothbrush and unscented soap. A small stack of letters. An envelope containing 100 pounds – no small sum, but hardly a life’s fortune. 

The emptiness of the case was starting to make her feel anxious and she reached up to close it, when something caught her eye. On the top, there was a small cloth compartment and she could see, just barely peeking out, the corner of a photograph. Her breath caught and so slowly she pinched the exposed corner and pulled the photograph into the light. 

It was Michael’s picture. It had yellowed with age, but his face hadn’t dulled any. The creases on the right side, in the middle, were still there. 

It was odd the things about his face that had blurred in her memory – she had forgotten the worry line across his forehead that creased when he smiled; she had remembered him with a slightly more angular face, but here in her photo his cheeks were a bit rounder and healthier. 

It was also odd the things her memory had chosen to keep right. He had a cluster of freckles on either side of his nose and she had always remembered them exactly correct – five on one side, four on the other. 

Carefully, she traced one fingertip over his smile. Then, she walked back to her bed and sank down onto the side of it. 

“I’m scared, Michael,” she said to his photo. “I don’t want to ruin this chance, but everything has been done so out of order that I’m afraid I will struggle to right it.” 

He was just smiling at her, frozen in time. Even now, sitting in her old clothes, she felt so far apart from him. 

“I think you would have liked Patrick a lot,” she said and smiled. “You would have loved his endless enthusiasm.”

It was time to go. She didn’t know precisely when Patrick would arrive, but she wanted to be ready for him the moment that he did. 

She smiled at Michael one last time, ran a finger down his cheek, and then tucked his photo safely into her handbag. Then she collected her empty suitcase and nearly empty suitcase and headed to the front door. 

/-/-


	6. Chapter 14, alternative ending

It was mid-afternoon and Patrick was standing in his kitchen cleaning up from lunch. With a plate in hand and towel carefully wiping the dish dry, he was distracted from the task by Shelagh’s laughter. 

He looked out the kitchen window and saw her sitting on the couch. She had her knees squeezed together and was perched slightly forward so she could bend towards the coffee table. Timothy sat on the floor, with his knees under the table, and was looking up excitedly at Shelagh and then down at his neat rows and columns of model aeroplanes. Patrick couldn’t tell if Shelagh was genuinely interested or just humouring him, but, as Patrick listened in on their conversation, he heard Timothy giving detailed specifications on the fuel capacity of the Whitley bomber.

Patrick glanced over at the clock. It was already (and only) half past three. A small trace of guilt nagged the back of his mind for last-minute cancelling today’s patients, but then he looked out at Shelagh and Timothy and every bad feeling melted away. It had been a long day, but a great day. 

When he woke that morning, Timothy was already awake and dressed and had the kettle on to boil. He ate cereal in large spoonfuls and grinned, his mouth filled with milk, when Patrick came into the room. Patrick had intended on sending Timothy over to the neighbours for the morning and meeting Shelagh in private, but he just couldn’t say no to the boy’s enthusiasm. As the drive passed out of the city and into the countryside, Patrick found himself quite glad of the company. 

She had been waiting for them when they arrived. There was a small porch facing the drive and she sat in a white rocker, two suitcases by her feet. Patrick couldn’t tell if she was napping or praying or dreaming, but her eyes were closed when he got out of the car. The slam of his door grabbed her attention. Her eyes fluttered opened. When she saw him, her face was slowly overtaken by a smile – first shy, then giddy, then a proper full, eyes shinning smile. When Timothy sprang out of the car and bound up the stairs onto the porch, she laughed and stood and greeted him with a tight hug. 

Timothy immediately offered to take her luggage and moved around her to grab the cases. “Gee, these hardly have anything in them!” he said and smiled and bound back down the steps to the car, where he took the responsibility of stashing away her things. 

Patrick was much more cautious. He took his time approaching the steps, but didn’t dare mount them. Instead, he looked up at her, half-smiling, half hoping that his heart didn’t pound its way up his throat and out his mouth. 

“Hello, Patrick.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the way she said his name. He wanted to hear her say it ten times a day – one hundred times a day. 

“Hello, Shelagh.” 

Timothy, having already sorted out the luggage, came rushing back to the porch. He grabbed onto the railing and lifted himself just off the ground. “We have a fantastic luncheon prepared for you, Sister – I mean,” he blushed at his mistake, “Ms. Mannion.” He looked down, a little embarrassed, and brought his feet back to the ground. But then, reanimated, said, “And we got an incredible assortment of biscuits for tea. We wanted to get your favourite kind, but we didn’t know what it was. So, we bought a few different ones for you to try.” 

“That was very thoughtful of you both,” she said with a smile and, glancing at Patrick, realized the biscuits were Timothy’s idea of an important gesture. “To be honest,” she said as she descended the stairs, “I’m not sure that they sell my favourite biscuits here in England. I’m not sure if they sell them at all anymore.” 

“Well, if you tell me what they’re called, I’ll investigate it for you.” Shelagh bit back a laugh, good-naturedly, and whispered the name into his ear. Timothy beamed and nodded and somehow, just like that, Patrick realized that they had a secret pact between them. 

Timothy was already sprinting back to the car, apparently ready to continue their adventure, while Patrick just stood there and watched him. Suddenly, he felt Shelagh’s fingers run along his palm, then her hand clasped his. He looked down at her. There was some fear in her eyes, a certain trepidation of what the future held, but he could also see a newfound certainty. He knew that she was looking up at him and seeing her future – a future that was bright and happy and exciting – and her certainty calmed him. 

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “Did you get my letters?” 

“Last night,” she admitted. 

He could see her about to apologize for not responding, so he shook his head a little and said, “Sister Julienne told me that you might not be receiving them. I would have written more, but she suggested it was best not.” 

Shelagh nodded. Then a little blushed crept over her cheeks. “I’m really glad you tried, though. They were all lovely.” 

Then Timothy stuck his head out the opened window. “Aren’t we going?” 

And so they headed back to London. Their first stop was the Turner flat, where they dropped off Tim under very specific instructions to prepare a few things for their luncheon, before continuing on to Nonnatus House. Patrick took her two suitcases from the boot and followed her up the stairs. From a few steps behind her, he watched a new battle play out in her heart. At first, she simply reached for the doorknob, as if a young adult returning home after a month away. But then she stopped, pulled her hand back to her chest, then reached out for the bell. Her fingers hovered just over it, like the formality of asking permission meant something she wasn’t prepared to accept. Or, maybe she was unwilling to have her first conversation as Shelagh be on the front step. Her hand decided against the bell and clasped onto the doorknob, twisted, and she let herself in. 

Patrick followed her in, one suitcase in each hand. Timothy was right; they both felt basically empty. In fact, the one sounded like it only had two or three things in it and they were all tumbling around with every step. 

Shelagh walked directly to Sister Julienne’s office. She kept her hands folded in front of her stomach, kept her eyes partially down. She walked carefully and briskly, as if hoping to disappear into the Sister’s room without being noticed. And she nearly made it. Just as she rapped her knuckles on the office door, Nurse Franklin and Nurse Miller turned into the hall. 

Nurse Miller seemed ready to call out and offer help to this stranger when Nurse Franklin gasped and recognized Sister Bernadette. Perhaps it was her glasses that gave her away; or perhaps Nurse Franklin was simply more adept at noticing faces. But the two hadn’t managed to say a word before Shelagh was beckoned into Sister Julienne’s office and she slipped inside without speaking to the young nurses. 

Patrick made the mistake of setting down the suitcases. The sound of them hitting the wood floor reverberated down the corridor and both nurses looked over at him. Then briefly at each other. Then immediately advanced on his position. Surprised and outflanked, he was forced to greet them. 

“Sister Bernadette has left the Order?” Nurse Franklin said before they had even finished walking over to him. 

“Is she leaving Nonnatus too?” Nurse Miller asked in her soft, worried tone. 

“Did you know?” Nurse Franklin suddenly asked, her smile a bit knowing, and Patrick was reminded of two weeks ago at clinic. 

Patrick sighed and knew that he would have to offer them something to get them to leave him alone. He nodded. “I was aware that this was part of what she was grappling with. Whether or not she’s leaving Nonnatus,” he started and suddenly realized that he had no idea. There was still so much to discuss and decide. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully. His sudden confusion seemed to also confused the nurses and they turned to one another and seemed to silently decide to leave him alone. They retreated up the stairs, probably to their rooms or to the other nurses. 

Shelagh was particularly quiet as they drove back to the Turner flat and Patrick chose not to ask how her meeting went with Sister Julienne. 

When they arrived, Timothy had already set the table and gotten the food out and was sitting at the piano practicing a short piece. Shelagh relaxed almost immediately and lunch went over better than Patrick could have hoped. 

Patrick was just finished putting away the plates from lunch when he heard Timothy move on to the development of the Avro Lancaster. He peaked his head through the kitchen window and called out to Timothy, “Did Ms. Mannion ask for such an in-depth introduction to aviation in the war?”

Timothy seemed properly chastised, but Shelagh shot Patrick a teasing frown and leaned even closer to Timothy. “I’m actually quite fascinated. I know almost noting about aeroplanes. Except about the Spitfire there.” And she pointed to Timothy’s prized model plane. 

The boy looked up at her in astonishment and Patrick wanted to laugh and tell Tim that everyone who lived through the war knew about Spitfires, but he wouldn’t have dampened Tim’s mood for anything. 

“Really?” 

“My brother flew them in the war,” she said and Patrick thought it was weird to suddenly hear her speak so casually and openly about her past, something not encouraged in the religious life. But he supposed that was all over now. She could say what and as much as she wished. 

He wondered if he knew she had a brother, if she had ever mentioned him. He suddenly realized that she could have an entire family he knew nothing about. Her mother had died when she was young and her father from TB about a decade ago. He knew nothing about aunts and uncles and cousins and siblings. 

Even lost in thought, he was still watching as Timothy’s eyes flew wide opened and his mouth dropped in shock. “You have to invite him to Poplar to meet us! I have so many questions for him. Did he fly in the Battle of Britain? How many Nazi Messerschmitts did he shoot down?” Timothy’s excitement ran off with him and he listed more questions about the war stories he would love to hear, so much so that he didn’t notice that Shelagh had leaned away from him or that her face had fallen or that she had stopped responding to him as she had been before. 

“Tim,” Patrick scolded. Timothy looked over and recognized the stern look on his father’s face. Patrick had had to warn him on several occasions to be cautious asking for war stories. He was just a boy and didn’t understand. But both Patrick and Timothy knew when they looked back at Shelagh that they wouldn’t be meeting her brother. 

Timothy was very quick to distract her by offering to play the piano and show her the new pieces he was working on for his lessons. So, Patrick joined Shelagh on the couch and they listened to Timothy play for a while. He was getting so talented that Patrick was constantly wondering whether he’d have a doctor, an aviator, or a pianist for a son. 

After tea, Patrick encouraged Timothy to go out and play. At first, the boy protested missing any time with Shelagh, but then he stopped and winked at his dad (in full view of Shelagh) and ran off outside. Shelagh, having clearly watched the exchanged, turned a bemused face to Patrick. “Was that the secret cue? Is there another surprise?” 

The whole day had been so perfect and relaxed and lovely and suddenly Patrick was terribly nervous. He ran a hand through his hair, then quickly reached across the table for her hand. 

“There have been a lot of surprises and changes recently. And I don’t want to overwhelm you.” It seemed like an ominous beginning, he suddenly realized, and he silently scolded himself for not better rehearsing what he was going to say. “What I mean to say…” He straightened up and felt around in his pockets until he found the small box he had placed in them earlier that day. He slid the tiny package over to Shelagh. He wanted to say something more profound, but he found that he had no words at all. 

Shelagh smiled at him, then carefully picked up the box. She pinched the string between her fingers and pulled the knot free. The wrapping paper had been Timothy’s idea and Patrick held his breath as she unfolded it to reveal Tim’s handwriting. Her lips trembled a little as she read, then she looked up at him and smiled. “Will you be my mum?” 

“Will you marry me, Shelagh?” 

He reached out and snapped the lid opened on the box, revealing a simple diamond ring. He and Tim had agonized over their choices. They’d debated gold versus silver and settled on gold – Tim because he thought it prettier and Patrick because he thought it would be a nice change from the silver bands the nuns wore, but he didn’t tell Tim that. They almost went for an emerald, because Patrick associated her with green, for reasons he couldn’t explain, but instead Tim convinced him that she would prefer something more traditional. 

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, almost a hiss as she held onto the ‘s’. But then she beamed at him and said clearly, “Yes!” 

Almost surprised, he got up and took the ring from the box and slipped it onto her finger. Her fingers really were slender and he was impressed that he and Timothy had managed to roughly guess her ring size correctly. 

No sooner than Patrick had wrapped his arms around Shelagh, ready to kiss her, than the door burst opened and Timothy rushed back in. “Did she say yes?” 

Patrick, with his back to the boy, groaned, but Shelagh chuckled and placed a hand on Patrick’s chest and pressed gently to create room between them. She looked over at Timothy and smiled and flashed the back of her left hand. 

Timothy cheered and came closer to them. “I helped pick out the ring, did dad tell you?” 

“Well, it’s lovely,” she told him. That made him happy enough to smile, snatch another biscuit off the table, and rush back outside. 

Patrick watched him go with a shake of the head. “Should we tell him,” he asked Shelagh, “about our other surprise?” 

Shelagh frowned. “There’s been a lot of change for such a young lad. Perhaps it should wait. Probably until after the wedding. He’s so wee, he won’t realize.” 

Now that all of the surprises had been worn out, Timothy gave the adults their privacy and remained out in the streets playing until he grew hungry for supper. 

/-/-

After supper, Shelagh gently insisted on returning to Nonnatus House. 

The foyer was dark and the draught chilled her. The cold reminded her that she ought to buy a coat first thing, before the weather really began to freeze. And that thought reminded her of all the things she would have to work out – new clothes, a wedding, appointments at the mother and baby clinic. 

The lights in the kitchen were still on and Shelagh walked back there to turn them off, but when she arrived, she found the nurses quietly boiling milk. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to disturb. I just saw the light on.” 

At the sound of her voice, the nurses all froze. Trixie dropped her hand, black cigarette between her fingers, nearly to the table. Cynthia paused in the act of lifting the pot of milk off the stovetop. Chummy’s fingers grazed the side of the biscuit she had been reaching for. Jenny’s lips were rounded, still forming her next word. 

Then, in a rush, they all began to move. Cynthia set the pot back down. Jenny changed the shape of her lips to insist that Shelagh join them. Trixie used her non-cigarette hand to pat the chair next to her. Cynthia reached up and grabbed another mug. Chummy echoed Jenny’s words when only Shelagh had remained still. 

It was with a mix of reluctance and excitement that Shelagh took the seat beside Trixie. There was a moment of silent, buzzing excitement as Cynthia brought over the Horlick and Jenny passed the mugs around the table. Shelagh took a mug for herself and wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic. 

“Well,” Trixie said to finally break the tension. “The first thing we have to know is what do we call you?” 

The other nurses nodded emphatically. 

She smiled. “Shelagh. Shelagh Mannion.” 

“That’s a lovely name,” Cynthia said, practically in a sigh, as she sank into her seat, while Chummy proclaimed, “That name suits you exactly.” 

“You’ll forgive us if we slip up now and then,” Trixie said more than asked and Shelagh of course nodded. 

“I’m sure you all have a lot of questions,” Shelagh decided to say, to cut them off before the night dragged on longer than she could probably bear. “My decision to leave the Order has been weighing on my mind for a while now. My time at the Mother House was what I needed to finally feel certain in my decision.” 

Trixie glanced at Jenny, who was watching Cynthia burry her face in her steaming mug. They all seemed to understand Shelagh’s implication that she didn’t want to say much more beyond that. 

There was a little hum of tension around the table, before Trixie shifted the conversation. “Those aren’t the only clothes you own, are they?” 

The whole table seemed suddenly aware of Shelagh. Her pale blue blouse, that was already a little worn when she gave it up. The tweet jacket she wore, with a slightly angular, masculine cut, popular in the wartime fashion. 

Shelagh blushed and bowed her head, then looked up into the four faces looking back at her. “These clothes were what I was wearing the day I took my vows. My other clothes were donated to charity.” 

Trixie immediately snuffed out her cigarette and grabbed Shelagh’s elbow. “Shelagh, I have a half-day tomorrow. Please, let me take you shopping.” Shelagh seemed a little hesitant to accept the fashionista’s assistance, but too polite to offer an immediate no. As if she knew exactly what was worrying Shelagh, Trixie added, “Promise, I will help you find your own style and we’ll just get a few things to get your wardrobe started.” 

Feeling a little more confident, Shelagh accepted the offer. 

Just like that, she felt suddenly part of this other world of Nonnatus. The world of the young women and nurses, folded into their talk of fashion and men and gossip. 

A new conversation opened up about a patient Jenny had visited that day and Cynthia added her observations of the family. Just as Chummy began to offer some heartfelt sympathy, Shelagh lifted her mug to drink her Horlick. At the same time, Trixie looked over at Shelagh, gasped, and brought an abrupt end to Chummy’s words. 

Somehow, Shelagh had already grown so comforted by the feel of the engagement ring on her finger that she had already forgotten it was there – at least, that it was there for others to notice. 

She felt her blush burn across her pale skin as the nurses, one-by-one, caught sight of it. 

“You weren’t even going to tell us,” Trixie said, each word sharp and pointed, despite her joking tone. 

“You don’t have to tell us,” Jenny said trippingly, leaning into the table with her interest, “but does this have quite a lot to do with why you left the Order?” 

Shelagh glanced down at the ring – a lovely, simple, traditional style that suited her quite well. 

She felt a little at loss how to answer without divulging the entire affair – something she was disinclined to do. She sighed and looked up at the nurses. “It played its part, yes, but it wasn’t the main reason. Not really.” 

They all looked around at each other, stray giggles evoking more giggles, until sweet Cynthia, quiet and huddled around her cooling mug, spoke. “Do we know the lucky man?” 

Shelagh looked around the table. Cynthia was watching her closely, her face open and kind. Jenny leaned evermore into the table, curiosity lighting up her face. Chummy was smiling, as if every turn of the night had been such great excitement. And Trixie – Trixie wore a knowing smile. Someone who didn’t know her would probably say she looked smug and sure. But Shelagh had watched the young woman grow over the years and she saw the kindness and the wisdom and the softness in her features. 

Her blushed doubled. They would know soon enough; it was time to be honest. 

“Dr Turner.” 

A shocked noise erupted around the table that was both surprise and excitement. The look of shook on both Cynthia’s and Chummy’s faces spoke of their wonderful innocence and the quiet joy on Trixie suggested Shelagh had just confirmed her hunch, which unnerved Shelagh just a little. 

She was suddenly hit by a sea of questions: 

“When was the wedding?” – “As soon as the banns can be called.” 

“Who will give you away?” 

“Why so quickly?”

“What kind of flowers?” 

“Oh! You must let me make your dress,” Chummy offered and then Trixie offered everyone’s service to do her hair and makeup. And Shelagh tried to gently refuse them, insisting that she just wanted something simple, but Trixie finally ended the discussion with a firm, “We’re your family and if we can’t spoil you for your wedding, then when else can we?” 

That sentiment stilled Shelagh: these young women were her family and they hadn’t forsaken her. 

A bell chimed and the nurses looked around the table. “Well, that’ll be compline. We best clean up before the Great Silence.” 

And they did exactly that – quickly, as a well-oiled machine, washed and dried and put away the few dishes they had created and tidied their mess. Shelagh helped to put away and wondered how habitual this evening ritual was. 

Trixie turned as she wiped dry the last mug. “Would you like to join us for a nightcap?”

Shelagh smiled and thanked her for the offer, but declined. As the nurses headed upstairs to the room, Shelagh followed the sound of disparate footsteps all meeting in the house chapel. 

The Sisters lined the aisle facing each other, as they did so often throughout the day, and began their prayers. Shelagh stood near the door and listened as they spoke the words of the confession of sins. 

At the Mother House, she had attended the daily offices sporadically and had kept mostly to herself, out of the way of the Sisters. 

When the nuns spoke in unison, “Amen”, Shelagh joined them. 

As the Sisters began to sing Psalm 31, Sister Julienne peaked over at her and smiled and nodded towards an empty space, welcoming her silently. Shelagh quietly took her place next to Sister Monica Joan. The older woman was moving her lips along with the prayer, but no sound seemed to escape her. When Shelagh’s voice joined in with them, Sister Monica Joan smiled and her worn hand wrapped around Shelagh’s like a welcomed hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the end of this series / story for now. There's a vague idea in my head for how I would continue it, but I'm not sure this will happen for a while, if at all. 
> 
> Instead, I'm hoping to work on a new story idea - essentially a 'ten ways Shelagh and Patrick met in alternate universes'.


End file.
